


Look At This Tangle Of Thorns

by Rue_River_Styx



Series: Disenchanted Dystopians [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aesthetics, Anger, Animal Death, Articles, Attempted Murder, Author Commentary, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blogger - Freeform, Blogging, Character Study, Confessions, Crack and Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Diary/Journal, Embarrassment, Emotionally Repressed, F/F, F/M, Fear, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Gen, Good Writing, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, Lolita, Lolita Novel, Loss of Identity, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Musical References, Nymphlets, Parent/Child Incest, Pedophilia, Philosophy, Poetic, Poetry, Poor Life Choices, Primrose Black, Prison, Quotations, Rants, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, References to Depression, Russian Literature, Sad and Happy, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Step-parents, Violent Thoughts, Website: Disenchanted Dystopians, Wishful Thinking, Writers, novels, sad endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22074316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rue_River_Styx/pseuds/Rue_River_Styx
Summary: If you can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style, I have committed thousands, many more unthinkable crimes along with them; I am a sweet serial killer. Shall I write a verse or perhaps a novel on it? I have written thousands of novels between killing sprees, all recorded not by time, but by my strange self, the typewriter memorizing every detail and every synonym of the word blood. Have I had many Lolita’s? Indeed, I have. They are invisible, incognito, keeping them safe in my arms and safe from the likes of investigators who seek to destroy my dark thoughts, deeming them odd and abnormal. What can they say of the strange when they have never committed strange in their lives?
Relationships: Dolores Haze/Humbert Humbert
Series: Disenchanted Dystopians [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588915
Kudos: 6





	Look At This Tangle Of Thorns

“You can always count on a murderer

for a fancy prose style.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,

exhibit number one is what the seraphs,

the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs,

envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”

From Vladimir Nabokov’s _Lolita_

We meet again, sufferers, fallen seraphs, victims of life, worshipers of death’s peaceful beginning—you managed to find your way back to this page through second-thoughts and desperation only sleep deprivation can remember to call back. I begin today deliberately (though forced by unconscious fatigue) ignoring the coming of a new recorded lightyear, having come to terms as of late that time is merely an illusion, something only organized minds can record in triumph, can consider a celebratory event. Time is an oddity I find daunting, taunting, if you will, constantly hovering, reminding, forcing our overstimulated minds further into an abyss at the disturbing measurers of time, ticking clocks, blinking alarms, calendars, dates, anniversaries…but today we won’t be dwelling on eternity. That subject has long ago been overused and wasted precious space in my anxiety’s storage closet. Time is nothing, therefore it is everything. I prefer nothing over everything.

Often times I find my self-analyzing more troubling than useful—reflecting on childhood, specific details and memories that were once able to be forgotten so easily become pivotal in discovering what breed of monster you truly are. Dictators know they are dictators. Depressed peoples may or may not know they are depressed. But those who continuously suspect themselves always know, and yet come up blank when the time for diagnosis has arrived. If inflicted long enough, say, from birth to late teen years, the depressed will first become aware and as a result, becomes extremely over-aware. I now understand what I used to think before all _this_ : strange is inexistent because every mind believes itself whole-heartedly. Nothing is beyond ordinary for murderers because what comes naturally to the human mind eventually becomes accepted as normal. Schizophrenics know the voices in their head to be real because of their persistent and constant presence, therefore this abnormality seems normal within the reality life set. Addicts know themselves to be addicted, turning habit into reality. If we naturally think it is, so it becomes, whatever ‘it’ is, and vice versa.

Nabokov’s character Humbert immediately feels his attraction to the titular character Lolita, and feeling eventually warps into thought, which then transforms into being, although he would have found that he existed as this long before meeting his first love Annabelle Leigh. So-called “bad” (what criminals dub normal) is only triggered, never implanted. The deceptive, dark ideas transfiguring into personality bite, scratch, pin down the idea of “normal” and change its definition in each individual mind. The given person might not ever imagine themselves being stabbed, attacked, fucked, may not ever imagine what would happen if they were to violently jerk the wheel of their car left going down an isolated highway where coming upon a crashed car would take days—these are not “normal” images, some might say, but the very bane of our existence drives towards the question of _why_? When a older woman (tampering with the subject of “time” again) engages in a relationship with a younger male, why does it make other individuals uncomfortable? When someone prefers to stay in the confines of their home, why does it make them fearsome? When Humbert pursues a romantic relationship with Lolita, why are we so appalled, yet fascinated enough to continue reading on? Why is murder by others terrifying, but if I were to imagine murdering myself, it becomes tragic? Well, as I have known all along, it doesn’t do my situation any good by judging the deeds and unsettling ideas of others. I have come to understand understanding, that every person, evil or good, malevolent or sullen believes themselves, their ideals entirely, without question—the ones who question their own answers, however, are the ones we should fear most definitely, for they are the judging horsemen, picking only on themselves and leaving large populations on their own.

What creature is so bored of their own insignificance that they look to judge (unknowing to them, a specific type of envy) my isolation and secretive tendencies? Humbert wondered this, too. His creator and master, Nabokov, must have as well. Is it more comforting, I ask time, or more horrifying knowing nothing has been solved in our monstrous case since 1955? Here I am, pleading with time when I unreliably narrated that I would not be discussing time in this confession…very disorganized indeed. Turning back on subject, I have been asking myself more unanswerable questions while avoiding time, such as what I can do to stop a violent ending to my violent delights, escaping Nabokov’s punishing ending in _Lolita_. I admit in recent (insert a documentation of time here), and by recent I mean lifetime, I have come to terms with the fact that it is more probable for me to die alone having answered nor solved none of these prying issues than it is probable for me to find satisfaction and romantic/platonic love. If human love fails, as it burned and quickly crashed in _Lolita_ , I will always have a tiny corner of dirt, nature’s finest friend, to serve as my loyal, unwavering, free minded companion. The ground does not judge my thorns, how heavily they bleed, how high they strive only to fall so low—the ground understands, because it is alive and surviving just as I do, only they see more light of life than I. (And probably more fire in their loins as well.) Still, happy endings do not content my mind, and my Lolita’s rather have no endings at all, due to my fear of endings, whether happy or tragic.

Do I deserve everything I will receive, especially through mental self-infliction? Indeed, I do. There is no horseman harsher than myself. Humbert gave his confession in diaries, in prison, to Lolita herself as I give mine to these readers, my very own Lolita’s I fantasize about for no reason other than my secret need for human interactions, although I hiss and slink away during actual social interventions. To quote off the Internet, I want to be ruined more than I want to be loved. Perhaps this is true of us, friend; we need something more powerful than just harmless interactions. We need something that inspires, that strikes a match in our lungs until smoke consumes our life, until we are utterly ruined and punished by beings who are not considered strange, who have never considered strange a possible career choice. Trial and error is not a useful method. It must be perfect, it must not be Dolores or Lo, it must be Lolita from the very start. Such is our _strange_ obsession with being ruined, the epitome, the seventh circle of hell for some, but the heavenly sphere for us.

If you can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style, I have committed thousands, many more unthinkable crimes along with them; I am a sweet serial killer. Shall I write a verse or perhaps a novel on it? I have written thousands of novels between killing sprees, all recorded not by time, but by my strange self, the typewriter memorizing every detail and every synonym of the word _blood_. Have I had many Lolita’s? Indeed, I have. They are invisible, incognito, keeping them safe in my arms and safe from the likes of investigators who seek to destroy my dark thoughts, deeming them odd and abnormal. What can they say of the strange when they have never committed strange in their lives? If they are the so-called measurers of time, what do they have to say of their own Lolita’s, the secrets they keep in the strangeness they refuse to admit? I fear those who are not time travelers. They never think strangely, never venture off their beaten path or dive into sinister ideas. Personally, I am fond of creative criminals, and though I do not approve of murder, I understand what frame of mind pushes them to such lengths. We are the same, only we hide our Lolita’s to avoid being persecuted and misunderstood. I am uncertain whether or not revealing our identities is the better option. See where Humbert wound up? But maybe prison is not so bad; after all, no matter where time forces you, nothing can stop the mind. It is the only creature that can sustain itself for eternity using fear, occasionally hope for brighter hearts, all on their own.

Nabokov’s _Lolita_ is secretly an important monument of sorts for strange folk—the sexual exploration and developing (eventually collapsing) relationship of Lolita and Humbert told through another unreliable narrator seems like a fanfiction, a personal confession of someone considered disturbed, unlawful by those who do not understand that writing does not exclusively mean condoning. We write it because we think it, believe it to be a story worth telling, a story we need told to release all tumultuous emotions throughout years of repression and denial. The mind can only take so much before it breaks under self-induced torture, spitting out secrets, sharing locations of Lolita’s and the Lolita’s of others, beginning the plot in the midst of a battle, a tangle of thorns we dig ourselves into before crawling out, only to be captured time and time again. Humbert at least lived half his life without enduring an immense amount of torture…true, it was always present, but remained dormant for many millennia. Tragic novels now begin with younger characters such as ourselves—novels now start with Lolita instead of Humbert. Her side of the story has yet to be told, and we do not have a clue how it will feel at the end, how tightly tangled her web will be. Maybe this dismissal of _strange_ is done with the purpose of wanting to know on what page, what chapter, what exact circumstances the story’s ending includes. If that is the case, I will spend the rest of my days, another year not knowing a single thing about myself, despite being a sickening creature of overstimulation and extreme psychoanalyzing.

Oh Lo, Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins…what a bloody tangle of thorns we weave through you.

Yours,

_self loathing poet_

**QOTD** :

Which character resonates you most: _Humbert_ or _Lolita_

**Next Entry** : _“Inhabited By A Cry”_

**Author's Note:**

> happy "new year" motherfuckers, may the odds be ever in your favor or some shit
> 
> chat me up on twitter (loathing_poet) or e-mail me at disenchantedpoetxxx@gmail.com. or send me memes with no context.


End file.
